


Rage

by ma_r



Series: Bleeding Red Instead of Gold [3]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29293641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ma_r/pseuds/ma_r
Summary: The Lion told them that once a King or Queen of Narnia, they would always be rulers of their land. It told them that every sacrifice and drop of blood had been worth it and then it ordered her to leave. Her land turned its back on her. The people cast her out. There was not a single outcry at the loss of her. After years of sacrifice, of death, and fighting, she was thanked with a locked door and a cold shiver on her skin. Banished from the only place she considered home.
Relationships: Edmund Pevensie & Lucy Pevensie & Peter Pevensie & Susan Pevensie
Series: Bleeding Red Instead of Gold [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1863949
Kudos: 11





	Rage

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from tumblr [(x)](https://exolovek.tumblr.com/post/642581739294818304/rage).

Susan Pevensie learned from an early age that she was often overlooked in favor of her siblings. She was the oldest daughter and that meant responsibilities that Peter would never bear. She had to be smart, quiet, mature. She had to be helpful and nurturing and she had to help his poor mother take care of the house that was falling on their feet with every new bomb that dropped. She had learned that if her younger siblings cried, it was she that had to soothe their tears and brush their snot with her skirts. She had to mollify Peter’s fiery temper with calm gestures and melodic words. She was the one that had to chastise Edmund’s unknowing cruelty with logic and stubbornness. She had to wake up Lucy from her dangerous daydreams with gentle words. 

She learned from an early age that her wants and needs were second. Always second. Below her parents, her siblings, her friends. Sometimes even the neighbors. And she had learned to keep her mouth shut, not demonstrate any sign of anger or sadness at this injustice. 

She learned well. A kind smile, a small glare, a single gesture of her hand, was enough to appease, to calm. She ragged silently against the injustice of watching her siblings play in the mud, while she cooked, knowing she was tasked with cleaning whatever they dragged in. Knowing that no one would thank her, and that complaining would result in a slap on her hand, on degrading comments about her posture and tone, on being called a spoiled brat. The world had scolded her until she learned that bending with grace was better than standing tall against the battering storms. 

And then Narnia. 

Cold, hard, terrible Narnia. 

Beautiful, welcoming, perfect Narnia. 

The land had greeted her like a lost friend, it had bent like the most loyal of servants, it had been waiting for her. Expecting her. It had changed its landscape just to please her. 

Here in this land, she didn’t have to serve. She didn’t have to bend. She could finally stand straight and yell at the storm to _fuck off,_ knowing that it would obey her. 

At first, she had been afraid. As afraid for her siblings as she was of her. She could not stop thinking about how her mother would slap her cheek and reprimand her for allowing such dangerous things to happen. She hasn't been the one that led them to the cold land. She hadn’t been the one that had made a deal with a witch or had fallen so deeply and innocently in love with a snowed in land that she had turned her back to their responsibilities faster than a blink of an eye. She had been the one that hesitated to embrace her role as protector of the land within the first seconds of stepping in the cold place that would turn into her home. And they always held it against her. Punishing for being the first to doubt before she even knew there was a thing to question. 

She had been the one that looked back at the place the wardrobe used to be and considered going back because she had to tell the Professor that she and her siblings were going on a mystical adventure to save a magical land and that _no thank you, there is no need to take us to the asylum, you see there really is a magical land behind the wardrobe._

 _Figures,_ she thinks when Edmund leaves and Peter starts blaming her. 

_Figures,_ she thinks when Lucy is dragged by the current and Peter looks at her for answers.

 _Figures,_ she thinks when they give her a horn to call for help and a bow and they give their siblings swords and daggers. Even her, they want to keep her away from the mud.

 _Figures,_ she thinks when she is crowned Gentle when she is anything but. 

Still, the title grew on her, became her. It morphed because of her. She had no words to describe how she adored the way the land _bent_ for her. In this strange world, she was Queen. Her needs were the same as the ones of her people. She relished on the freedom of knowing that here she would be free of responsibilities she did not wish to carry. She let her hair grow, let people call her beautiful and gentle, she decorated her hair with flowers and crowns, wore paint on her lips, and adorned herself until her beauty distracted. She was the colorful snake laying innocently in wait. 

Her words were venom, her figure dangerous and she won many wars before they started with pretty poison that adorned her lips. And she was called Gentle, not Magnificent, not Just, not Brave. Gentle. She liked to think it was because she granted her enemies the comfort of dying in their own bed and not on the battlefield. 

She was underestimated, constantly, by her siblings, by her friends, her subjects, her enemies, and she relished in the knowledge. Oh yes, she would bend with grace to hide the dangerous smile on her lips.

She was the one that recognized the lamppost, that remembered the wardrobe. She could never forget her mother's nails digging on her skin, reminding her of her place. Old habits die hard, and she followed her siblings, an engraved need to keep them safe curved her own desires once more.

The weight of old responsibilities itched uncomfortably against her skin. She wore it better this time. She knew how to play it. Knew when to smile, how to play coy, how to outmaneuver from the shadow of their underestimation. She might not be the Queen of the Gray World, but she would not be treated as anything but. She wanted everything, she earned everything with nothing except nylons and lipstick and invitations.

And then the train, the beach, and the ruins of Cair Paravel, and she is angry. 

She is angry at the loss of power, at the fact that someone dared take away the land’s willingness to bend to her needs. She is angry that the sun doesn't shine brighter when she craves its rays, that the land dares cut her feet, that she gets lost on the valleys she had carved. How dare- _how dare the land ignore her like this?_ How dare it ask her to fight another war? How does it dare to make her ache with the knowledge that she had failed it? Abandoned it? She is angry, and she is sad and she cries and cries and cries. Narnia is supposed to always be. Is supposed to flourish and live. It's supposed to be wonderful. The Usurper killed her land. He took her horn. He took the lives of the people she had sworn to protect. She would pay him back tenfold for making her carry another burden. 

She wondered about the Lion when her sister brought it up, she dismissed her memory and her sister's words. She had no time to wonder and hope, to deviate from her revenge. Her anger could not be doused and no Lion would ever change that. She had lives to save, losses to avenge. If the Lion was gone it was his own decision, if it came back was because he desired to do so. Her involvement didn’t matter. 

Eventually, slowly, her teeth began to sharpen, her hands became rougher, her skin thicker, and when she spoke her voice was a roar. She commanded the army, led the archers, soothed the tears, brushed away the snot of her scared subjects, she mollified unruly and angry warriors with calm gestures and melodic words, she used her logic and stubbornness to adjust war plans, she brought back shell shocked friends with gentles words. She became the Gentle once more and the people welcomed her home. The land awoke, gifted her blood, bones, and death, the Lion came back chastising her for doubting, for not following him, for daring to be more than his puppet. She bent at the onslaught of his words, biting her cheek at the plain favoritism it kept showing to her siblings. It was nothing new. 

The Lion told them that once a King or Queen of Narnia, they would always be rulers of their land. It told them that every sacrifice and drop of blood had been worth it and then it ordered her to leave. Her land turned its back on her. The people cast her out. There was not a single outcry at the loss of her. After years of sacrifice, of death, and fighting, she was thanked with a locked door and a cold shiver on her skin. Banished from the only place she considered home. 

Fine.

They were the ones who decided she knew enough, that she wasn’t enough anymore. 

_Fine_.

Let them all rot. 

Let them all become just a game. 

Let the blood and death and tears and sacrifice become imagination. 

If the land didn’t want her, she didn’t want it back. 

The Gray World welcomed her skills. It adored it when she spoke gently and when she looked up flirtatiously through her eyelashes. Loved it when she talked about clothes and tea parties. Applauded her when she spent hours upon hours talking about marriage and babies. Admired her when she kept quiet about the subjects of death, hunger, and war. It rewarded her for her secrecy, for being the most cunning in the room with none the wiser. 

She was beautiful, she was the Gentle, she was the former Queen of a land that rejected her. And the knowledge that she once had been more than a pretty face burned. 

But nothing angered her more than that the fucking cat had been right. She had learned everything she needed from the land she had once loved. She had learned to use the shadows to move, that being desirable was a tool she could exploit. That everyone would always look at her and think her stupid, superficial, and naive. That she was anything but. She had learned that she was a protector, how to be gentle to hide her intentions. It had taught her to rule with a hand covered with a velvet glove, it had taught her how to get her way with simple words. She learned to command armies and rooms. It also taught her that she was only wanted when she was needed. And that she was easy to discard, she was only the Gentle after all. Never admired like Peter, emulated like Edmund, or aspiring as Lucy. 

She was only ever needed and not wanted. But the Gray World would always need her. She would make sure of that. She was the belle of the ball, the attentive host, the girl next door, the caring friend, the dependable woman, the perfect wife, the girl man wanted and woman envied. She would be the one with the advice, with all the gossip, with all the contacts. The woman with the best clothes and the best makeup. She would be the housekeeper, the guardian of secrets, the one with the answers. She would be the cause of controversy, the answer to any question. The world she built in the Gray World would orbit around her and none would question it. It would become a given, a law. A certainty just like gravity. Susan Pevensie was needed, and because she was needed she was wanted. 

Only her siblings ever wanted her, for her soothing words, for her logic, for her calm demeanor. They loved her for her secrecy, for being the Gentle, for being a warrior and a Queen. They had always underestimated her, but they had always taught her capable. But, as much as they love her, they could never understand, so they poked at her with sticks.

They ask her: _Susan, do you remember when the sun brightened at your request?_

 _Impossible._ She says and shakes with the cold of the Gray Word. 

Then they ask her: _Do you remember when we hunted with wolves?_

 _No such thing could ever happen._ She admonishes, fighting back a howl for the pack she lost.

Finally, afraid, they ask: _Do you remember Narnia?_

 _It was only a childhood game,_ she says, and her voice is steady and unflinching, as she swallows the thirst, the hunger, the craving for blood. _I_ _t’s time to grow up._

The irony is that they don’t. 

For the first time in years she screams, she rages, she claws at her skin until she bleeds, she cuts her hair, she runs barefoot on the estate when the tear-stained letter with the news arrives. She bleeds and cries and demands in a way she hadn’t before. The Gray World doesn't listen. It never has before. 

They are dead. _They are dead._

Narnia asked more of them than they could give. It took from them until they weren’t needed anymore, it discarded them, just like her. Used them, just like her. Only it's worse because they are dead. They are dead and she is alone. Lost in a word that never listens to her. 

Someone tries to bring her back to her room at first with gentle coaxing and then with threats. They try to drag her to her room and then they try to carry her when she digs her heels. She fights back. She will not be corralled, nor controlled. For the first time in years, the snake strikes back. It bites and screams and poisons, it rages against the lost opportunities and the fact that Peter’s smile is gone, Edmund's voice is silenced, Lucy’s eyes are dimmed. Nothing is safe from the mourning rage. Nothing calms her, nothing soothes her. No touch or word can ever be uttered that could ever calm the overpowering wave of grief she feels. She fights back against the injustice, fights her parents' attempts to contain her. She screams, curses, scratches, and pulls, there is nothing gentle about her. 

She is a warrior without armor, she is a Queen without a land, a sister without siblings. The one left behind. The one that has to learn to live with the loss, that one that would now have to stand tall against the battering storm with no one to stand with her.

**Author's Note:**

> I think Susan is the epitome of soft power. Wikipedia defines it as the ability to shape the preferences of others through appeal and attraction, which fits both canon Susan and my own personal interpretation of the character. She isn’t as strong, as just, or as brave, but she is gentle and in her gentleness and beauty there is a power she wields easily. As you can tell by my story, I feel like she resents the fact that she only has soft power at first, but then grows to love it and then grows bitter when it's stripped from her. Only to learn to wield it again in a different world with different rules, where nylons, lipstick, and invitations are her weapons, instead of her bow, arrows, and horn. The fact that people get angry at her for adapting and taking at face value what Aslan had told them is baffling for me. Aslan told them that they wouldn’t return, and she believed him and because of that, she didn’t believe enough? What kind of mind game was Aslan playing with them? But that's not the point of this story or my author's note. 
> 
> This story isn’t really long enough nor focused enough to really deal with the real discourse that surrounds Susan which can be summarized with: Does she deserve to return to Narnia? My answer is: Yes. The _why_ is a more complex thing to answer. C. S. Lewis wrote a story that mirrors Christianity. I’m catholic. I was raised catholic, baptized 2 weeks after my birth, I had my first communion when I was 10, my confirmation at 11, my first doubts about my religion at 17 when I realized that I liked girls the same way I liked boys. At 21 I decided that while a lot of the things about my religion didn’t really fit me, most of the things do. I still go to church, I pray and I believe. When I talked to my brother about my doubts, questioning my beliefs and religion he said “I admire the believers that are like you, the ones that wandered and returned.” I can’t say for certainty that Susan would have returned, no one really can, but I can say that the fact that she wandered doesn't mean that she deserves to have the entrance barred. 
> 
> But aside from my own projections on the character, I think there is another question that often gets overlooked, would Susan even _want_ to return to Narnia? I think she would. But only for a simple reason: her siblings are there. If the option to return to Narnia was given to her, and she was told that she would go by herself, I believe she would say no. Not necessary because she chose to forget, or for lack of belief, but mostly because for her Narnia _is_ her siblings. She can’t separate the two of them. She has never been to Narnia alone like Lucy, she didn’t owe a debt to it like Edmund, and she certainly wasn't a war hero like Peter. She was there because of them, for them. The craving for power or simple nostalgia would not be a big enough draw by itself to abandon what I call the Gray World and the people that live in it. In this story, Susan is angry, she is bitter and petty. I think she deserves to be. I think she deserves to grieve for Narnia with anger and denial. I think she didn’t deserve to be left behind and she certainly didn’t deserve to be hated for the simple fact that she doubted.
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](http://exolovek.tumblr.com/) and yell at me if you want.


End file.
